Complements Ch 1
by lulu-ny
Summary: Meet my Christian and Ana (they're anxious to meet you). I posted Complements on FF last year almost in its entirety ( a few chapters were cut a bit for proprietary reasons). I'm posting a few chapters again for those of you who never got to check it out last time. So . . . check it out. Daniel doesn't like to be kept waiting.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

I glance at the alarm clock: shoot, it's already past eight. I have an interview for a summer internship at 10:00 and I still need to shower, dry my hair, and get dressed—not to mention travel to the damn place in Soho.

I jump into the shower, expecting arctic water to cascade down on me and then remember I'm staying in Derek's hotel suite. Mmm, hot water right out of the gate—so luxurious. I live with my mom and stepdad in an old townhouse in Brooklyn Heights and in winter, my bathroom is Siberia: the thermostat is stuck at eight so that's when the heat first comes on. It takes at least a half hour to warm the house. One of the many joys of living in an old house: something's always broken. But my mom is an antique fanatic so things will never change on that front.

What should I wear? The company is an architectural design firm so I need to look professional. On the other hand, it is—hopefully—cutting edge design so I should probably try to look like I fit in. Right?

Corporate or hipster?

I decide on neither and pull out a pair of black fitted trousers, a white tailored Oxford shirt with three-quarter sleeves, and overlay it with a form-fitting light gray J. Crew cardigan. My father had laughed at the amount of clothing I brought with me to his hotel. Lucky I did— now I have a choice. I don a borrowed strand of pearls from my mother—my nod to corporate culture—and finish the outfit with my Jimmy Choo black high heels. There.

Once on the subway, I allow myself to relax a little. It's 9:20 now and barring any unforeseen catastrophes, I'll make it in plenty of time, might even have time to grab a Starbucks. On second thought, better not. I might spill some on my white blouse and in any case, I don't want yucky coffee breath.

Jason Black-Epps is the name of the man I'm meeting. The name sounds so imposing—either that or he's British. I've just been in the UK, visiting my father for the Christmas holidays. I'm trying not to dwell on that trip, though. I met too many emotional hurdles while there.

First, I began to actually like my father for the first time in my life on that trip. Well, love him, really.

He and his wife Mia split up while my sister and I were visiting. I felt so badly when it came time to leave, knowing he'd be there in that creepy, haunted house all by himself. I tried to convince him to adopt a dog but he brushed it off, laughing. When I got home, I mentioned to my mom the possibility of sending him a puppy.

"Olivia, Derek is the kind of man who drowns puppies, not cuddles them."

When she saw my scowl, she relented somewhat. "Honey, it's never a good idea to just send a companion animal as a gift. Animals are a huge responsibility and it's better to let Derek get himself a dog if he wants one."

"Okay, fine."

She looked at me with the omniscient eyes of a mother. "Olivia, my darling, please don't take on more worries. This is a time of your life that should be carefree and fun. Your father will not be lonely, trust me. A man with Derek's looks and money is not going to be single for long—not even for ten minutes. I can guarantee it, sweetheart."

Whatever. Granted, I know my father is stupidly handsome, and I started to realize while I was visiting him that he's kind of wealthy, but he's still my father and I don't want to see him miserable. My little sister, Chess—short for Francesca—and I had a fantastic time with him and I want him to be happy. Now I miss him and wish he hadn't left New York for the UK.

Then there was the small matter of meeting Daniel Butler. He's the one who's truly wreaking havoc with my peace of mind.

As soon as he pops into my head, I banish him. No. I simply won't go there.

So caught up in my random thoughts, I almost miss my stop at Prince Street. _White Elephant Design_ is located right on Broadway and I find it instantly. Now what? It's only 9:35 and my appointment is not till ten. Should I go in early or will I look too eager?

I decide to go in, and use the extra time to fill out any applications and maybe chat with the receptionist, pick her brain about the company. I'd gotten the reference from my guidance counselor at Columbia where I'll be attending classes in the fall. From the description it sounds like a perfect fit for me, plus, she basically insisted I interview for the job.

The façade of the building is typical Soho red-brick 19th-century industrial, but as soon as I cross the threshold of the double doors on the third floor, my eyes are treated to the most transformed space possible.

Talk about cutting edge, the interior décor is museum quality. Un-freaking-believable. The walls are covered with what looks like gray suede but I'm guessing is a paint finish. The floors are highly polished cement and the lighting incredible: tiny pinpoints of light shine down from different angles, diffuse only when reaching the floor. Most are white but around the perimeters are colored lights, pink and blue. The furnishings are all mid-century modern: black leather Barcelona chairs surround a waterfall table and a white settee sits coquettishly amid them. Very nice.

At 9:50, after filling out the application and chatting with Bobbie, said blond receptionist, I'm called into Mr. Epps' office.

Jason Black-Epps is a Brit as suspected, and a nice looking one at that. He escorts me to the chair opposite his desk.

"Please, have a seat, Ms. Girardi."

"Thank you, and please call me Olivia."

While he peruses my resume, I peruse him.

He's of average height, 5'9" I'd guess, and thin. Dressed all in black, but then, this is Soho and black attire is almost a requirement. His brown hair is long, nearly at his shoulders, and very shiny.

"Olivia, your resume is impressive for one so young. So you're planning to study architecture, I see?"

"That's why I'm here," I answer brightly.

"You do know we're a design firm but we don't do architecture?"

Shit, I think, and my face heats up. "No, I didn't know, as a matter of fact. Your company was on a list of companies for architecture majors so I assumed . . . "

"Well, you know what they say about assuming," he retorts with a smirk.

He glances up at me, his eyes dancing with amusement. "Are you still interested in working here? WED is a very cool company. Everyone, including the company owner, is under thirty years old with two exceptions: we have a 47-year-old man and a 39-year-old woman. We call them our resident senior citizens and everyone has to take turns buying them lunch every Friday," he adds with a smile.

I reach for my black canvas messenger bag. "Honestly, it looks like a great company to be associated with but I have my heart set on getting experience with an architectural firm so regrettably I'll have to decline. Thank you so much for meeting with me and I apologize for taking your time unnecessarily."

"Not at all. I wish you weren't so insistent about architecture—I think you'd fit right in here. At WED we have a great mission. We take products that were designed decades ago, if not hundreds of years ago, and we reimagine them.

"Think about it: isn't it beyond absurd that some designs are so old—ancient, really—and no one has thought to improve upon them? Consider an ironing board, for example: is that design so indelibly perfect that no modern mind can improve upon it, I ask you? Really? And that's where we come in."

"Sounds fascinating but I still have to pass. Thanks, Mr. Black-Epps." I pause. "Hey, that sounds like black ops—sort of dangerous and cool."

He laughs, and even his chuckle seems to have a British accent. "I think so, too. Lovely to meet you, Olivia."

I stand and shake his hand and he escorts me to his office door. "Good luck in finding the right one." He whispers the last part exaggeratedly.

I walk down the long hall, depressed. Now, most of the good jobs will probably be snapped up and I may not get one for the summer. I glance around at the suite of offices—it really is a cool place, I have to admit. Was I too quick to turn it down?

As I walk past an office, I peek in and see three people conferring around a long white table. One of them, a man, looks familiar and as he glances up at someone, I see his profile and my stomach swoops down into an Olympic dive.

Perfect face, golden brown hair, broad shoulders, beautiful clothes . . .

Is it _Daniel_?

Oh, no, please don't let it be, I pray to the universe.

There's one way I can tell for sure. If he turns around and sees me, and an electric charge rockets through my body, I'll know. But I'm not planning on waiting around for that to happen; I just keep huffing, my head down, eyes trained on my shoes.

My body recognizes the truth: my heart is thrashing violently because in my gut I know it's him, it's Daniel Butler, the most exquisitely gorgeous man I've ever set eyes on—apart from my father, of course. Over six feet tall, brown hair shot through with gold highlights, glittering green eyes, bronze skin, and a perfect, I mean perfect, physique. I met him while I was visiting my father in the UK over the holidays two plus months ago. Even though I knew a man like that would never in a million years be interested in me, I had somehow convinced myself that he was.

And then one day he up and disappeared and I never saw or heard from him again. If that is Daniel in there, I'm so very glad I turned down the job.

I reach the front reception area and as I stroll past the friendly receptionist, I have an idea. I stop in front of her. "Bobbie? Is there someone named Daniel Butler who works here, by any chance?"

She looks at me as if I'm mentally deficient. "I'd say so. He owns the company."

"He owns it?" I didn't expect that answer. After all, Daniel told me he was a freelance animator.

"Yes," Bobbie continues, "he owns it—among other things. I guess you don't read the Wall Street Journal much. And FYI, don't even bother," she says, flicking her hand down. "Even though he has this womanizing reputation, I've yet to see him show a flicker of interest in anyone. Numerous girls just as beautiful as you have tried and failed miserably, believe you me."

She thinks I'm beautiful? I find I like this girl. I knock my knuckles on her desk. "Good to know. Well, I've got to be going. Thanks for everything." I smile and turn to leave.

"Did you get the job?"

"Uh-uh. I turned it down before it could be offered to me. I have my heart set on working for an architectural firm. I've got to fly, Bobbie. Very nice meeting you."

I don't mean to be rude, but I've got to get out of here so there's no chance that Butler will see me. After the way he disappeared from the UK . . . well, I can take a hint.

My hand is on the door handle when I hear a silky voice somewhere behind me.

"Olivia?" Everything south of my navel shifts elements . . . _and I know it's him_. I close my eyes in frustration. Shit!

What should I do?

There's no escaping it so I pivot around slowly and as soon as our eyes connect, my body is pummeled with the almost-vicious jolt of electric current. Fuck, what is that all about anyway?

Abruptly, my legs start trembling and I feel sick to my stomach, remembering how I felt when my father told me Daniel was gone. I had been just getting to know him and . . .

My life has been an emotional roller coaster for the last few months. Last September, my boyfriend of almost two years dumped me and I was reeling from that rejection. I had just met someone new and promising—Jeremy Albright —when I had to leave to go visit my father and his wife in the UK. That's where I met Butler. He was leasing an art studio in my father's building.

That entire trip I thought I might be losing my mind. I'd been having my dream—the erotic one—so much during those weeks and then I'd just had a really strange one while napping on the plane.

But things were just beginning to go crazy, I soon learned, because while still in the London airport, well, that was when I first set eyes on him and my world inverted.

I remember every detail as clearly as if it were yesterday. We had just made our flight in the nick of time . . .


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The chiming ringtone precedes the announcement: "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. We're beginning our descent into Heathrow Airport right on time for our very late arrival." That little joke by the captain generates a collective titter of laughter throughout the cabin.

"The temperature around Heathrow is currently 41 degrees Fahrenheit, with an overcast sky— or in other words, welcome to London! Please note the seatbelt light is on and we ask that you return your seats to the upright position—remember, upright means you stay alive; reclined means you don't. We at Virgin hope you enjoy your visit to Britain and come fly with us again soon. Thank you."

More airplane humor. I expel a long sigh of relief. Finally, my never-ending flight is over. For a while there, I didn't think it would ever end. First, we almost missed our flight, boarding the plane seconds before they closed the doors. Then, as if in punishment, our plane sat endlessly on the tarmac waiting for clearance to take off. I spent the time daydreaming of _him_ and soon dozed off.

It seemed like hours ticked by. The seatbelt light was on, so getting up wasn't an option. Neither was screaming in frustration. I had this wild urge to do just that—just whale on the airline personnel for making us wait so long. Smiling, I pictured the ensuing chaos, knowing I'd never act on that impulse. I'm the type who generally toes the line. But in my interior life, anything—even mild violence—is possible.

To make a long story short: my sister Chess slept through the entire flight with her music from the 60s, 70s, and 80s blaring through her earphones—she's only fourteen by the way and the little weirdo only likes old music. Then this really creepy guy with yellow skin and wiry hair kept staring at me—I continually checked my clothing to make sure I had no wardrobe malfunctions. Nope, I didn't, yet I kept catching him gaping, three times in a half hour. Maybe my tight red sweater with the plunging neckline sent out the wrong message?

Then I had a bizarre dream. In it were two young lovers in a strange land and at the end of the dream, the boy died and I woke up feeling grief stricken, as if I'd lost a close friend. As I opened my eyes from the dream, the plane was descending.

We've flown from New York to London, our final destination being an English village called Lavenham, to spend the winter holidays with Derek—our father—and his wife, Mia. My mom and stepfather, Greg, will soon be on their way to St. Bart's. Lucky Mom—headed to someplace hot and sunny.

In line with my usual luck, the weather in New York has been freezing, with snow and icy rain all the past week. According to Derek, it isn't much better in London. I hate winter because it's cold and the nights are long. Night has always represented bad things to me—probably a remnant of primordial memory, when the dark equaled mortal peril.

As far as visiting my father goes— well, Derek's not in any danger of winning a Father of the Year award. Neither of us likes to visit him all that much. This time at least we get to go abroad, cold or not, since Derek and Mia had moved to the UK about six months ago. Sweetening the deal, Derek upgraded our tickets to first-class. Plus, my mom and Greg hadn't exactly given us a lot of choice in the matter. So here we are.

3

3 


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The Boeing 767 rolls to a stop at Heathrow International at 9:30 a.m. local time. The second the seatbelt light goes off, I hurriedly grab our carry-on bags with one hand and then yank Chess up by the arm with the other, trying to get off the plane ahead of most of the other passengers. Beating the crowd is definitely worth dislocating my sister's shoulder. Belatedly I realize my effort is unnecessary since first-class passengers exit the plane first. Duh.

Derek is waiting for us in the terminal, just outside customs. Surprisingly, he is alone. He stands leaning one shoulder against a wall, and every female of childbearing age who passes him does a double take. No wonder the man has such a bloated ego.

My father's tall, over six feet, and lean and toned, with the physique of a man much younger than his 38 years. He has black hair and grayish blue eyes, and right now he has a few days' worth of stubble on his chin yet he still manages to look impeccably well groomed. His clothes—dark blue jeans, white Oxford shirt, black boots, leather jacket—all scream expensive. I suppose most women would consider him a total catch. I can't really see beyond the fact that he's my father—and not a very good one at that.

When he spots us, he quickly strides over, giving us both a simultaneous hug. "Girls, how are you?" Stepping back, he appraises us. "Wow, you've both grown so much! And become so beautiful, too. Was the flight okay? I hope you were comfortable in first class?"

He seems much friendlier than usual. Maybe he likes older kids better than young ones? At seventeen, I am pretty much an adult.

"It was good. Uh, thanks for the ticket upgrade . . ." I stop, unsure of what to call him. We see him so infrequently that our reunions are always awkward. The last time we saw him he told us we could call him Derek, since we were in the habit of using 'Dad' for Greg. I wonder if he still feels that way.

We navigate the crowded airport, heading to the baggage claim area. By the time we get there, luggage from our flight is starting to move down the belt. We're staring at all the bags going round for a minute or two when Derek chuckles. "I guess it might be easier to spot your luggage if I know what it looks like and how many pieces there are?"

"Yeah, about that," my face flushes as I look dejectedly at dozens of identical black suitcases circling around the automated beltway, " . . . there are three of them and they're all black. Sorry. I guess I should have let Mom talk me into the red ones. But she tied silver and purple ribbons around the handles," I add helpfully. "Uh, what would you like us to call you, Dad or Derek?"

He grins, and I notice for the first time that he has the same dimple that I do—or I guess I have the same one he does. "I'll answer to either one, Olivia," he says and coming closer, gives me a quick hug. I don't remember Derek ever being this affectionate before; I suppose I'll have to try to reciprocate.

Success! Coming toward us on the carousel are two black suitcases festooned with purple and silver streamers. We check the tags: bingo. The last one rolls out a few moments later.

Derek picks up the two larger ones and I grab the third and we walk outside the terminal. He places the bags down on the sidewalk and turns to me, "I'm going to get the car. You two can wait here so we don't have to carry the luggage to the car park."

"Okay."

Chess slumps against me, too exhausted to hold up her own weight. My fatigue evaporates as soon as I step outside: I am in the freaking UK!

That first glimpse of Britain is somewhat foreboding: it's cold and damp, as expected; the sky is overcast and oppressive—just a very dreary place with nothing much to look at. While we are standing there a knot of people strolls by, chatting animatedly. They all look suntanned and happy—obviously they've just returned from someplace warm and sunny, lucky dogs.

Just as the cheerful group clears us, a shiny black motorcycle cruises slowly past. The guy on the bike looks directly at me as he rides by and our eyes meet.

Wham!

A jolt of stinging electricity torpedoes through my body and sucks the air right out of my lungs, leaving me gasping for breath. It feels as if an unseen force slams me against a brick wall. I am immobilized until he rides out of sight, keeping his eyes locked on me until he no longer can.

"Whoa! What the hell?" I don't mean to even say it out loud but I nearly shout. Chess wakes up and looks at me.

"What?" she demands.

"Nothing, never mind," I stammer out quickly to avoid closer scrutiny.

The little rat is irritated that I woke her and stalks off, sulking, to lean on the building wall.  
I try to calm down but I'm trembling like a miniature poodle in a stiff breeze. Even though the air is chilly, I begin to perspire excessively. And all I could think about is the dream that has been haunting my sleep for so long—it suddenly shoots to front and center in my brain.

It started three years before, when I was fourteen years old, but just recently has become more frequent and significantly more intense. The last one was insane. I woke up slick with sweat, remembering the entire shameful dream as if it had actually happened, minute by minute. Even now when I think of it, I can feel a searing blush creep up my neck.

In the dream, I'm in bed and this guy—who I don't recognize as anyone I know—is in my room with me. I'm never able to see his face clearly. He speaks to me but I can't understand what he's saying. His presence doesn't bother me; I actually feel as if he's watching over me. Sometimes he'll touch my hair or my cheek but he usually doesn't get too close. Eventually, he just fades away.

The last one, though? Vastly different. This time he got considerably closer. Like, in-bed-with-me closer, touching me, and whispering in my ear. I could actually feel his warm hands . . . his lips . . . his breath. When I woke up everything was as it should be; it was just an overly vivid dream.

But these dreams came out of nowhere. It's not as if I moon over romantic stuff; my mom taught me early on to focus on education and personal success. She had short-circuited her own ambitions when she met my father. Gen Winters' passive nature made her an easy mark for an alpha male like Derek Girardi. She married and had me before she was finished with her third year of college.

I guess that's why she has done her level best to steer Chess and me away from the same course. Parents tend to do that, I guess—try to fix their own mistakes through their children. It's sort of like getting another chance, albeit a vicarious one. Whatever.

As for romance, Joe Manning was enough for me but that's all done. His betrayal cut me to the quick. I'd told him very private things—like the fact that I've always felt lonely, as if something or someone important was missing from my life. I attributed it to my father being absent most of the time. But I never before shared that part of myself with anyone.

After Joe ditched me, I made radical changes: I cut my long hair to just below my shoulders and toned down on make-up. I started wearing only black clothes—not to be Emo but to reflect my new dark outlook on life—and I joined a Pilates class with my best friend Cassie. Most important, though, I dedicated myself to school, eliminating any social life. I was genuinely planning on staying the course, and did— for about six weeks. Then Plan B cropped up.

Plan B is gorgeous, funny, and in both my English and physics classes. His name is Jeremy Albright and he helped push Joe Manning to the very outer wilderness of my mind. Jeremy keeps me focused during the dreary winter days.

My nights belong to my beautiful dream boy, but since he's begun to get so physically bold with me, these dreams have been messing with my mind and heart. I'm starting to obsess over him and he is now invading my days, as well. I make a diligent attempt to shrug the whole thing off, blame it on puberty's raging hormones. But despite my efforts, the dream haunts me, rippling into my consciousness day after day.

5

5 


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Hi y'all, Guess what? The print version of Complements just hit Amazon today! I'm so psyched. FYI: I priced it at the MINIMUM amount Createspace would allow but it's still a bit high at ten dollars (I think) for a paperback, trade size. Still, it looks really good and I hope some of you go for it. If you read it or the sequel, A Force of Nature, last year on FF, please consider going to Amazon or Goodreads (or both) and leaving a review. It will only take a minute or two and I'd very much appreciate it. Here's the link. I have to spell out the dot com or it will be pulled by the filter. Close spaces and insert correct punctuation.

Amazon dot com/Complements-1-ebook/dp/B00BCUK7RI/

Enjoy this last update on FF and here's hoping you need more Derek and Daniel and buy the book!

Chapter 4

Snapping me out of my reverie, a sleek black Aston Martin pulls up to the curb and Derek jumps out in one fluid motion. He uses a remote to pop open the trunk and he swiftly picks up our luggage and places each one in the car. Chess crawls into the back seat and I get in on the passenger side—what would be the driver's side in the U.S.—and we pull away. I turn around to see if Motorcycle Guy is anywhere around but he's long gone.

Watching Derek expertly maneuver the car, I wonder how hard it was for him to get used to driving in Britain. Since the cars in the UK have the driver on the right side instead of the left, and drive on the left side of the road instead of the right, everything feels wrong and backward. But Derek doesn't seem to mind it at all and drives confidently. Now that I think of it, everything about my father is confident, and I wish I could have inherited just one iota of his mojo. I guess I'm more like my mom in every way.

During the ride to Derek's house, Chess sleeps most of the way, as usual. I nonchalantly keep an eye out for a motorcycle; there is one a couple of cars back—could it be him? Derek keeps checking the rearview mirror but it turns out he is looking at Chess in the backseat.

"Why is your sister so tired? Is she okay?"

I shrug my shoulders and look out the window. "She must be having a growth spurt or something, Dad. I really don't know. Maybe she has mono?"

That gets a reaction. Or is it that he noticed that I called him Dad? It is weird; he actually seems aware of my existence and is acting as if he genuinely likes me. What's come over him?

I glance back out the window. It is a gloomy day and everything outside looks gray, even people's complexions. Though the architecture in England is brilliant—especially medieval structures—we're on the highway so there isn't too much to see. The Aston Martin runs so smoothly it seems to trill like my cat—Greg's Mini Cooper sounds like a jalopy in comparison. Next thing I know I am nodding off too, lulled by the silky ride and the monochromatic landscape gliding by.

I wake up about twenty minutes later as we are driving through a small village and it is so charming, I'm glad I didn't miss it. I could picture Agatha Christie's _Miss Marple_ or _Hercule Poirot_ perfectly at home in this little town, trying to solve a murder. My mother has read every single Agatha Christie mystery—she's a dedicated Anglophile.

Then, by some miracle, Chess wakes up too—with no encouragement—and Derek starts entertaining us with stories about medieval English towns.

When the stories turn to the plague, Derek warms to his subject. "They think the Black Death arrived in England in or about 1348. It's believed to have originated in the Far East and spread to other regions via ships traveling the trade route. That summer—the summer of 1348—was unusually wet. Grain rotted in the fields because the rains were relentless. The damp made a welcoming environment for bacteria to flourish.

"The worst hit places were those that were overcrowded. Poor sanitation accelerated the spread of the disease. Supposedly, on November 1st, 1348, the plague reached London and almost half of the city's residents died, 30,000 out of 70, 000."

Chess pipes up from the backseat. "Why'd they call it the Black Death? Or do I not want to know?"

"You probably don't want to know," Derek chuckles.

"I want to know. Tell me," I insist.

"Well, there are two types of plague infection. One is the bubonic plague. That was the one called the Black Death. The lymph nodes would swell up with growths. These growths would turn red first, then purple or black. The sufferer would die within hours. The progression of the disease was so fast that an Italian writer named Boccaccio said its victims often 'ate lunch with their friends and dinner with their ancestors in paradise.'"

"That's so disgusting!" Chess has no tolerance for gore.

"The other form was pneumonic, where the bacteria went straight to the lungs. Those poor souls would vomit blood and—"

"Ew! That is so gross," Chess again cries from the backseat.

Gross or not, I could hear these stories all day; they're morbidly fascinating.

"Sorry, Chess. It is horrific, isn't it?" Derek glances at her in the rearview mirror. "Over the next few years, the plague killed a third of the population of England. Over five years, it killed 25 million people in Europe—about a third of Europe's entire populace.

"So how did it finally end?" I ask him.

"The worst of it was over in England in about two years though there would be serious outbreaks for the next two hundred years or so. It wasn't until the beginning of the 17th century that England became truly free of the Black Death. Of course, as with any disease, there are always a few isolated cases that crop up here and there, even today. But they can be easily treated with antibiotics."

"So tell us about your house, Dad," I prod to keep him talking. I can't remember ever seeing my father so animated.

"I'm anxious for you two to see it. Mia and I fell in love with it almost instantly. It was built at the end of the 15th century, during the reign of the Tudors. There were improvements made to it in the 16thand 18th centuries. Then there were more recent improvements. Mia and I have done a lot of work since we got here."

"Really? Like what?" I'd taken a college-level art history course last summer and we spent a lot of time on architecture of different time periods. I found it so interesting that I started thinking about studying it in college if—and this is a big if—I can keep my head above water in all of the required math classes.

He looks over at me, grinning. "You really want to know?"

I bob my head up and down, arching my eyebrows.

"Well, we gutted the kitchen but we kept the all the original walls in place. We just enlarged the archway. We installed an _Aga_ stove, which is a British-made oven that stays on all the time. It was just delivered last week. We also renovated the two existing bathrooms and we added a third full one upstairs and a powder room on the main floor, so now each bedroom has its own bath. The small guest house on the property is my next project."

He sighs. "There's still a lot of work to do, inside and out. We have nearly two acres of land."

"Hey, Derek, does the house have any ghosts?" Chess asks eagerly. She would love that. Chess has a thing for haunted houses and is forever watching those ridiculous television shows about ghost hunters whose cameras never manage to record anything.

Derek laughs. "You know, it certainly should, given its long history. I'm not particularly sensitive to the paranormal so I haven't noticed anything unusual but that's not to say it's not there. You two can let me know if anything strange happens."

We ride the rest of the way in companionable silence. I spend a few minutes surreptitiously studying my father. I try to see him as others who aren't related to him do. Yes, he's extraordinarily handsome… but he knows it and that's never good. Also, he's always been sort of a snob and kind of standoffish. Eavesdropping, I once overheard my mom say he's materialistic, that he liked his stuff better than his family. She never said things like that in front of me—my mom never badmouths my father in our presence—though once in a while she'll say something jokingly.

Grandpa Jem, my maternal grandfather, despised Derek when his daughter first brought him home. Grandpa Jem is practically the diametrical opposite of Derek. He has no concern for anything but his family and friends. Give Grandpa a comfy chair, a tumbler of whiskey, and a good book or some Dixie music—he'll be in heaven. He's fiercely loyal to his loved ones. When Derek walked out on my mother, Grandpa Jem wanted to smear the ground with him. Grandpa told me so himself—with great relish too.

Weird. They say girls end up marrying their father but my mom strayed just about as far from her father's model as possible.

And the marriage failed.

Now she's married to someone more like her father. Hmm, must be something to it, I guess.

About twenty minutes later, Derek turns the car into a drive demarcated on either side by a stone pillar. I hop out of the car, slide in the back next to Chess and elbow her. "Lazybones, we're here. C'mon, we have to bring in our luggage. Wake up," I insist.

Chess's eyes flutter open. "We're here? Where?"

I sigh in annoyance. Chess is a sleepwalker and frequently has long mumbled conversations with herself while in a deep sleep. It can take her a number of minutes to make the transition from coma into coherence. But still, this had been no more than a catnap.

"In Nepal; we're just about to scale the summit of Mount Everest. Hurry or you'll slip into a chasm and plummet to your death… Where do you think we are, you lunatic? You were just up and talking not twenty minutes ago. We're at Dad and Mia's house…" I elbow her again. "Come on, get out of the car, twerp."

Meantime, Derek has unloaded our luggage and is walking toward the front door, holding the biggest bag. Chess and I each grab one of the remaining two suitcases and follow him.

"Well," Derek says, "what do you think?"

If first impressions count, then I absolutely love it. It is an ancient stone structure. Decades worth of velvety green moss snake up the face of it. In the gray, shadowy light, it looms ahead like the star in an English Gothic horror novel. In summer, with bursts of colorful flowers shooting up all around the house, it probably has a very different ambiance, but in the chill nudity of winter, with all vibrant color leached out of the landscape, it looks ominous, scary, and pitch-perfect.

"It's amazing," I say excitedly. "This is a Tudor, right?"

"He said it was built during the reign of the Tudors, idiot," Chess snaps.

I stick out my tongue at her.

Derek grins at our exchange. "Right. You can see it has all the hallmarks of Tudor architecture: the steep pitch of the roof, the leaded windows, the brick surrounds on the windows and doorways," Derek points out each feature, obviously enjoying himself.

"It looks like a Hansel and Gretel house, Derek," Chess interjects. "It's so cute."

"Hansel and Gretel cottages are Bavarian, dimwit. Tudors were Brits, remember: Henry the VIII and all his headless wives?" I badger her.

"Whatever. We can't all be architecture geeks, you know." Chess sighs. "Can we go in now? I need to take a shower."

"Let's go," says Derek, as he leads the way through the front door. Inside is a long, dim hallway. I've never before seen brick floors inside a house—these are done in what Derek calls a herringbone pattern. The walls have a rough texture, like stucco, with niches carved out for light fixtures. Overall, it's very dark but it opens into brighter rooms. To the right is the living room or parlor (Derek says the Brits call it a lounge), which connects with the dining room. The kitchen is in the rear, and to the left of the hall are the library and study, an exercise studio, and a powder room.

"Wow, Derek, this house is so cool," Chess exclaims in her raspy voice. I elbow her again, whispering under my breath that we should call him Dad. She gives me a dirty look and then completely ignores me. "Fifteenth century, huh Derek? It looks so modern."

Derek chuckles. "True. I'm not one to forego modern conveniences, Chess."

After a quick tour, he leads us back through the entrance hall and up a curved staircase with a wrought iron banister.

"Let me show you to your bedrooms. That way you can unpack and rest up a little."

We get to the top of the staircase and start down another dim hallway, punctuated by soft light from a wrought iron wall sconce every few feet. Derek opened the first door on the left. "Olivia, this is your room. I hope you'll find it comfortable," he says as I walk in.

The room is amazing: it isn't huge but it's large enough and in the brick hearth a fire is lit, making the bedroom warm and cozy. There are heavy wood supporting beams that cross the length of the ceiling and matching dark wood French doors that lead to a Juliet balcony, with windows on either side. The floor is also dark wood, but most of it is covered by a plush ivory area rug. In the center of the room sits an antique mahogany sleigh bed with one matching dresser on the far side of the room. Flanking the bed are nightstands holding sparkling crystal reading lamps. Best of all, the room has its own bathroom.

I turn to my father. "This bedroom is perfect; I love it. Thanks so much, Dad," I reach up to give him a quick hug with my free arm, since the other is holding my suitcase.

He smiles, looking pleased, "I'm glad you like it. Please make yourself at home, Olivia. I'm extraordinarily happy you girls are here; I've really missed you both."

I plop my suitcase on the luggage stand at the foot of the bed and begin to unpack as Derek guides my sister to her room.

As I sort my clothes, I think about what Derek just said, about how he is glad we are here. It seems as if it is actually true. A tiny spark of affection for my father flares inside me and I decide this trip might be really good for both Chess and me. I'll admit that I don't understand the 180-degree change in him. He wasn't always so kind to us—and especially not to my mom.

Derek left my mother for Mia thirteen years ago when I was four years old and Chess was barely one. The day he left, he packed his things, took me out for ice cream, and tried to tell me he was leaving. I was more confused than upset, I think.

Though I was so young, my memory is clear and unequivocal for what followed: when he brought me back home, our house was filled with the smell of sweet things like cinnamon and chocolate. My mom was baking cookies, smiling as if nothing was wrong, as if our family was not falling to pieces. After Derek left, the three of us ate the cookies and watched movies. My mother's example was the epitome of grace under pressure—something to live up to.

She selected her second husband much more carefully—this time with her brain rather than with… er… other parts of her anatomy. So, two years later when she met Greg Beckham, my stepfather—an average looking man who adored her and put her on a pedestal—they were married within six months. Apparently she got it right this time since they were still happily married. For that matter, so were Derek and Mia.

Time served only to help widen the chasm between Derek and Chess and I. He never paid us much attention growing up, even though my mother was always quick to reassure us that he never abdicated his paternal responsibilities. I think she meant money, not love. Every time we went to visit him, it seemed as if he did his level best to avoid us. Instead, we'd end up spending time with either Mia or the housekeeper. One time, Derek went so far as to hire an au pair for the whole year just so she'd be there for the summer month we visited. I think the girl—what was her name? Eva?—was in love with my father. It just made me hate him more.

Chess and I both tried to figure out why he didn't love us. People always said we were pretty so it couldn't be he thought us ugly. We weren't badly behaved either and we tried our hardest to be quiet and good while at his house. None of our efforts ever worked. He just didn't like us.

After a while, it ceased to matter—at least to me. I don't know exactly how Chess felt since she likes to bury everything and I never wanted to pry into places she likes to keep hidden. But I stopped caring and once I did, my father seemed to inspire nothing but irritation in me. I was annoyed by his good looks, his beautiful home, his model-gorgeous wife. Everything he did ticked me off and eventually I began to beg my mother not to make me go visit him.

But since the moment he met up with us at Heathrow, he's been different. Radically different. Derek has been acting as if he actually likes us and wants us here. So I have to try to reciprocate, I suppose. We'll see.

At dinner Derek gives us the rundown. "So, here's what I'm thinking. First, I thought I'd show you around locally. Then we can head over to Switzerland for a few days and get in some skiing if you're game. After, I thought we'd go to Bath, where a friend of mine lives—I'm thinking of maybe moving there. I'd like to check it out."

He arches his eyebrows, "Then maybe a haunted castle… or a Jack the Ripper tour? We'll do London for a few days before your flight home."

Chess perks up at hearing that idea. "That sounds awesome, Derek. Let's do it." Chess steadfastly refuses to call him Dad and I know when to call it a lost cause.

Something Derek said immediately caught my interest. "Why would you move so soon after you and Mia finished renovating this place, Dad?"

He seems taken aback by my question and hesitates before answering. "It's just an idea right now. I have a couple of friends there. We'll see."

I'm suspicious now about what's going on with Derek and Mia. And where is she, anyway? I'm afraid to ask him for two reasons: one, I don't want to make him angry, and two, I don't want to know if she's gone.

Turns out I do have jet lag. By 7:30, I can no longer resist the arms of Morpheus and I say goodnight to Derek and Chess. Chess is watching an old Bette Davis movie on Derek's huge television and Derek is reading a biography of Picasso. They seem comfortable together in the study and the scene makes me smile. I have a feeling that Chess is beginning to grow just as attached to Derek as I am and I hope he doesn't let us down—especially for Chess's sake because she takes a long time to bounce back after a major hurt.

I drag myself upstairs and flop onto the big, soft bed. The feather top is so welcoming and luxurious; it's like sinking into a cloud. Derek certainly does not deprive himself of any creature comfort.

It takes all of my resolve to get up to brush my teeth. Washing my face revives me a little, so I linger in the spa-like bathroom. Peering at my image in the full-length mirror, I try to detach myself enough to see what other people see, squinting my eyes as if that will give me an objective perspective.

Hmm… A thin girl of average height, good skin, straight light-brown hair, blue eyes, a slightly upturned nose. I am decent looking in a nondescript way—pretty but not a beauty—not in my estimation, anyway. My features are too regular: nothing about me stands out. I have sturdy good looks. I would have been called handsome if I had lived a hundred years earlier.

Certainly I'm not a Lily Bart from House of Mirth; maybe, possibly, I can pass for an Elizabeth Bennett from Pride and Prejudice. Elizabeth is smarter than she is pretty, after all. I am definitely not someone a really hot guy would pick out of a crowded airport to swoon over.

I stick out my tongue at the stupid girl in the mirror and she returns the gesture.

There is still an enigma to ponder: if I am so ordinary, then what was that weird lightning bolt thing that happened between _Motorcycle Guy_ and me? I am mulling this question over as I climb into bed. It's the last thought I have before drifting off into the arms of my dream lover.

6

6 


	5. Chapter (backstory)

**A/N:** Hi all! I'm reposting the opening chapters of the backstory of Complements (Olivia's hot young parents) for those of you who expressed interest. I've decided to post the entire book free of charge on Smashwords and Goodreads. Give me a few days to figure out how to use Smashwords (okay, just to go there 'cause I'm so lazy) and it'll be up. The title will be Complements, the Backstory: Between Us. Also, look for my new Ana/Christian FF that will be starting up later this weekend. No title yet, sorry. xoxo

**Chapter 1**

Gen glanced at the clock: it was 12:20 and Derek was due at one. Shaking her head in some dismay, she couldn't quite absorb the reality that she was in this situation. Lunch, just lunch, she laughed, chastising herself for her overreaction. Yet… in all these years, he'd avoided ever coming to the house in Brooklyn since the very day she forced him to move out. Had he even stepped foot inside on the rare occasion he'd pick up the girls himself? She couldn't remember for sure.

When he called recently to ask if he might stop over to pick up the girls for the weekend and meet Jude, she impulsively invited him to lunch, never imagining he would actually accept. Yet he did, throwing her into an emotional tempest. As his arrival approached, she felt like she'd swallowed a swarm of fluttering butterflies—how would she handle being in close proximity, talking, laughing, smelling his aftershave… just everything, without everyone immediately knowing how she felt about Derek, how much she still loved him? Loved, adored, pined, yearned for him even after all these years had passed. The only verb she'd managed to shed with their divorce was her idolatry: he'd ripped that away with his crimes against her.

Olivia had told her that Derek seemed anxious to see the baby. Why, Gen wondered? To say that he and Greg never liked each other would be a decided understatement—anytime they were near one another, the tension was thick, generated by the animus between them. So why would Derek possibly be eager to meet Greg's baby? Is it possible that Derek somehow sensed some spiritual connection with Jude? That notion was almost too incredible to even contemplate, though Derek always did have this sort of mystical quality about him that he attributed to his Native American blood.

Sifting through memories she'd kept buried for so long, she had tried to recall her first husband's favorite foods: spinach _frittatas_, _panelle_, mushroom _risotto_, anything with Asian flavors like ginger or _wasabi_, most Mexican dishes as well. Gen took extra care with the meal, wanting the presentation to be just as tempting as the taste of the food. Derek was exceedingly wealthy now—well, really he always was, since his upbringing was quite affluent too—and used to the finer things in life and she didn't want the meal to be subpar. She'd spent hours planning the menu.

Even Greg wasn't his usual relaxed self: it was abundantly clear that Derek made him _ü__ber_ nervous and though he was always eminently fair to Derek in their discussions about the man and his relationship with their daughters, Greg didn't care to be around her ex-husband. Gen rather soon surmised the reason behind his discomfort: Derek intimidated Greg for different reasons, the most undermining one probably being Derek's supremely good looks. Gen figured most men would feel on the losing end around Derek. Physically, he was masculine perfection.

Olivia woke up early that Saturday and came down to the kitchen while Gen was drinking her coffee and soon to start cooking.

"Morning, Mom."

"Good morning, sweetheart. Sleep well?"

Her daughter nodded, her eyes still half closed with sleep. "I can't wait to see Dad. I've missed him so much."

Gen's eyes searched Olivia's face. "I know—Chess, too. Why is that, all of a sudden?"

Olivia shrugged, almost embarrassed by her mother's sudden scrutiny. "He was nice to us, Mom. He took off from work for two weeks to spend time with us . . . and he seemed as if he was thrilled we were visiting him. That's never happened before." She paused, thinking of what she wanted to say. "Even now, since we've been apart, he calls us all the time, and makes promises—and keeps them. He's . . . different now." Her voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. "I really love my father, Mom. I want him to move back to New York."

It made Gen unspeakably sad to realize her daughters had yearned for their father's love and attention all these years. As soon as he threw them a minute of his time, they both rolled over like puppies. Gen wondered if Derek realized the error of his ways and was renovating more than just his old house. She fervently hoped it was the case because if he shut off the valve of his paternal affection suddenly, it would break her girls' spirits. "Oh, honey," Gen said, as she pulled her daughter into her embrace. "He's always loved you and your sister. It's just that Derek is not very demonstrative when it comes to affection."

"He is now," Olivia said before she tossed a piece of muffin into her mouth, chewing and swallowing quickly. "Or _was_ when we were in the UK and during his last visit to New York. I'm waiting to see which Derek will come to lunch." Anxiety was etched into her face.

"Well, I suppose we'll know very soon," Gen said, patting Olivia's cheek, as fresh butterflies invaded her own belly. "Now, help me set the table."

By 12:45, everything was ready and the baby was down for his nap so Gen reclined in her chaise longue and tried to calm herself by meditating. Instead, she found herself reliving the moment she met Derek and her life was thrown into, well, not turmoil but an obsession so bone deep she knew she'd never claw her way out of it.

It was the first day of the spring semester in her freshman year of college . . .

Genevieve Winters looked at her watch; shoot, her drawing class started in ten minutes and she was on the opposite side of the campus. She'd better hurry. Weighed down by her giant black leather portfolio, as well as her backpack full of books, she nonetheless hustled, cutting across the swath of winter-dead lawn, toward the squat building that housed the studio classrooms. Stephen Hopkins was an enormously respected painter, often compared to Eric Fischl and Lucian Freud. It was just amazing that he agreed to teach at Pratt for a couple of semesters and even more astounding that she was accepted into the small class. It was a major coup.

She had just attained the front of the building when she stopped dead in her tracks. Rushing right beside her on a parallel course was the man himself—Stephen Hopkins—also hurrying to the classroom. He smiled when he saw her expression and she nervously returned it.

"Are you perchance one of my students?" he asked in a booming baritone. The man was taller than she'd expected, towering at well over six feet. He had iron-grey hair and sharply prominent facial features—definitely handsome in a rugged, non-artist type of way. He looked more like a cowboy but with his city-fashion sense an urban cowboy.

She felt her cheeks heat up, and she quickly bobbed her head up and down, leaving her face cast down so he wouldn't see her fiery blush.

"So we're both running a bit late, then?"

Hopkins was charming despite his intimidating looks, Gen thought, though a bit too old for her. His voice excited her, though, and right now, she wanted to just disappear into the back of the studio—once they arrived there, that is.

"Yes, I'm afraid so," Gen replied in a soft voice. "I'm coming from another class on the other end of campus. I'm Genevieve Winters." She held out her hand to shake, her ingrained manners crowding out her shyness.

"What a pretty name," he said, as he stepped aside to allow her first entry through the front doors. "Charmed to meet you, Genevieve. I'm looking forward to working with you."

Again she cast her face down. "I think you just swiped my line."

He tossed his head back and laughed; at that moment they reached the classroom, and he guided her through the door. "No, I don't think so; it was definitely my own sentiment, Genevieve." Hopkins was instantly smitten by the young woman at his side; this drawing class just got way more interesting for the painter, a man who liked his women young. What was it his old man used to say? Old enough to pee, old enough for me. Anyway, eighteen years of age was considered a full-fledged adult.

Gen knew that she looked good today. She'd worn her tight black jeans and the black turtleneck sweater that fit her so well, making her waist look waspy and her chest prominent. She finished the outfit with her black leather motorcycle boots, wrapped by three straps with pewter buckles. Her long blond hair was twisted and pulled over one shoulder and she actually took the time to put on make-up this morning. The reason she knew she looked good was that she felt eyes on her wherever she went, especially male eyes. Then again, those eyes are always on anyone with breasts, the more perky the boobs, the more eyes they attract.

She noticed him almost instantly: he was training a most penetrating gaze on her as soon as she passed through the doorway, and when their eyes connected, Gen felt the sexual energy instantly rocket through her, from her belly into her erogenous zones, contracting every muscle in its path. Wow. That had never happened quite that intensely before.

He was beautiful: tall, over six feet certainly, with broad shoulders and a long neck. Heavily muscled yet lean, too, he had a trim waist. Wearing blue jeans that obviously adored hugging his body, a long sleeved tee shirt that stretched tautly across his upper chest, and a flannel shirt over it, unbuttoned at the cuffs, he was standing over an empty chair, watching her.

It was his face, though, that was without rival: high cheekbones, eerie gray-blue eyes, strong chin, perfect nose, movie-star white teeth, and a head full of thick, dark waves—oh, and the requisite five o'clock shadow. Embarrassingly, after a couple of seconds of checking him out, Gen wished she had a change of underwear, and just that private realization made her face burn with shame, hoping no one in the room was capable of reading her mind.

Derek Girardi wasn't faring any better. The moment his eyes wandered over to the blond girl who walked in with the painter, he knew he was dead in the water. There was no way in hell he wasn't going to go after her, but he knew if he did, Hopkins would automatically hate him, possibly even fail him in the course. Derek knew all of that in about three seconds of watching the mesmerized artist, locked into a stare at the female student.

Gen said thank you to Hopkins and angled away from him, scanning the room for an open slot at one of the easels. Normally she would give a wide berth to the dastardly handsome guy in the back of the room but he, seeing her coming in search of a seat, pulled out a chair next to him, and gestured for her to take it.

Uh-oh, Gen thought, he's not shy at all. She smiled and came over to claim the proffered seat.

He stuck out his hand. "I'm Derek. Derek Girardi."

"Hi," she said softly, "Genevieve Winters. Nice to meet you. And thanks for the seat."

"Genevieve. Pretty name. Oh, and no thanks necessary—I was motivated purely by self-interest," he replied, grinning mischievously.

Gen saw the dimple emerge when he smiled. Was this guy perfect? "How is that?" she asked, even though it seemed as if she were fishing for a compliment—she wanted to keep him talking because she liked his silky, deep voice.

"I wanted to sit next to the prettiest girl in the room. Even if it earns me an F in the course."

She grinned. "Where is she and why would it earn you an F?"

"She's you and did you happen to notice how Hopkins was looking at you? I'd say instant infatuation."

Gen blushed furiously but said nothing. After a few other people filed in, Hopkins began addressing the small group of twelve students, all aspiring artists. Gen noticed Hopkins' eyes strayed to hers quite often and wondered if the handsome Derek was right. Was the painter really interested in her? Hopkins had to be in his late forties and she was eighteen.

The class was long—three hours in total with a single fifteen-minute break in the middle. It was past one o'clock when they were finally dismissed. Hopkins nodded to Gen as she swished out of the room and she smiled shyly, wondering if it was even permissible for instructors to date students. Not that she'd date him, since he was far too old for her and in any case, it wouldn't be wise.

Then there was Derek Girardi, who wasn't leaving anything to chance when it came to Genevieve Winters. He stayed stuck to her side as they exited the room, not allowing any of the other guys to get near her. There were seven females and five males in the drawing class and the other four men were also ogling the blond beauty. Derek wasn't allowing any of them the slightest opening.

Staring down a fair-haired boy in a leather car coat moving to get closer to the girl, Derek turned to his new companion. "Would you like to have lunch with me, Genevieve?"

Gen considered it. She was done with classes for the day and in no rush to get back to her dorm. Why not? "Sure. Where would you like to go?"

"I know a little Indian place that is really great. Like spicy food?"

Gen nodded. "Definitely, let's go."

He grabbed her hand and Gen felt a shock of sexual energy streak through her body and decided then and there that Derek was the one. The electric response her body experienced from his unexpected touch was enough to convince her that she wanted him to be her first. Her dorm mate, Sasha, was always giving her grief about her abstention but Gen never had any intention of being the lone virgin on campus. It's just that she had never met anyone whom she wanted to sleep with. Sure, there were a few movie stars she would like to have a few hours with, but no ordinary mortals. Then again, Derek was no ordinary mortal either.

Yes, she was pretty sure.

But did he even want it? Lots of guys didn't want to be bothered with girls who were virgins. Time would tell, she supposed. After walking a few blocks, he led her into a small, colorful façade and instantly they were transported to Mumbai City.

"What kind of art are you primarily interested in?" Derek asked her, once they were seated and had placed their order.

"My tastes are eclectic, but I suppose I'm mostly attracted to figurative paintings, oils primarily. How about you?"

"I work in oils, too. Nudes are my specialty—I do photographic nudes, as well. Lately I've been delving into sculpture—three-dimensional is a whole different game."

"Who are your influences?"

Derek shrugged. "My tastes continue to evolve. Originally I was drawn to the renaissance masters: Botticelli, Titian, Baldung, Caravaggio. It was the culture as a whole I was attracted to, I think, just as much as the art. My obsession led to my specialization in nudes. As my tastes changed, so did my work. I became briefly interested in the Dada movement's collages, which is why I began toying with sculpture in an attempt to create three-dimensional collages. I haven't abandoned my predilection with nudes but generally my sculptures are more geometric than figurative." He took a sip of the hot tea. "What about you?"

"I know it's not of the moment's trend but my heart belongs to the Impressionists. Monet was the reason I decided to pursue art and I've never strayed. Pointillism is kind of my thing. Do you have a studio?"

Derek nodded. "My parents leased me a space in Dumbo. It's a great big working loft and I let other artists take a bit of space in there, as well. Why? Do you need a studio?"

"I use the ones the school provides since I'm living in a dorm."

He nodded, commiserating. "I started out in the dorms my first year but I moved into my own apartment last fall. It's much nicer." He paused, looking intently at her. "So how much time do you have right now? Can you spend a few hours with me? I can take you to my studio, if you like."

Gen knew that she wanted to stay with him so she went with her first instinct. "I'm done with school for the day, so, sure, I'd love to see your studio."

They finished lunch and Derek took her elbow, gently herding her out of the restaurant, into the late afternoon air. It was getting cold as night drew near and they hurried to get to the subway to travel to Derek's studio.

When they emerged from underground, Gen looked around. "It's nice here. What does Dumbo stand for again?"

"Down under the Manhattan Bridge overpass. It's a fun place."

As soon as they stepped through the door, Gen was awesomely impressed. It was one giant, cavernous room with floor to ceiling windows everywhere. The view of the Manhattan skyline was without compare—utterly gorgeous. There were easels and art paraphernalia every six or seven feet and right now, a thin, dark woman was diligently focusing on her canvas, and a ginger man was napping on the floor near another easel, his hands folded serenely on his chest. When Derek spotted him, he laughed. "That's Dennis, hard at work, I see."

"Hey Aggie, how's by you?" Derek called to the young woman. She finally looked up and smiled slightly. "This is Genevieve and she may join us here. Genevieve, this is Aggie who spends 24/7 in the studio so if you work here, you'll see her around, without doubt. She's very dedicated to her art."

"Hi Aggie, very nice to meet you," she waved. "Oh, and Derek, please call me Gen."

Aggie barely acknowledged Gen and she wondered why. Might she be jealous over Derek? It was definitely a possibility. At that moment, Derek tugged her hand and led her into another room off the main one where there was a small kitchen and a full bathroom. Next to the bathroom was another small room: inside was a full-sized bed.

"This bed is here if anyone wants to stay overnight. If there's more than one who does, we have a few sleeping bags tucked under the bed and in the hall closet. The kitchen is fully stocked as well." He looked at her. "All the comforts of home."

Gen nodded her head thoughtfully. "So, this is your exclusive studio, leased by your parents, and yet you choose to share it with all these other people?"

Derek nodded.

"Do you charge them rent?"

"Nah. I don't need all the space and most of them are starving artists. My parents are going to pay the same amount either way so why make my friends pay?"

"Hmm, that's very generous of you, Derek."

He looked a little nervous. "So . . . are you interested in joining us?"

"I'll think about it. I mean, I definitely appreciate your kind offer but I'm not sure I'd be comfortable working around all these other people. But, thanks, Derek. You're such a sweetheart."

"You know, it's funny. I'm normally a complete loner but when I'm around other artists, I'm a different person, much more outgoing. I wonder why that is."

Gen shrugged. "I suppose you like your own tribe. Whatever the reason, I like how outgoing you are."

With a confident swagger, he strode over to where she stood by the refrigerator, and only stopped when he was about three inches from her face. "How much do you like it, Genevieve? Enough to kiss me?" His voice was soft, seductive.

"Yes," she whispered, "definitely enough to kiss you."

He leaned in and his lips brushed hers softly. That's it. Nothing more and Gen wondered why he stopped there. She smiled. "I guess I should head back to my crappy little dorm room."

"Why?" he asked, "I thought you said you were through for the day?"

She shrugged. "I am, but that doesn't mean I should monopolize your entire day. I'm sure you have things to do . . ."

"Nothing better than to get to know you. C'mon. I want to show you my apartment."

His apartment. Gen wasn't sure if she should go with him there. After all, she just met him today and though she'd almost instantly judged him to be hymen-worthy, he wasn't going to get it today. That much was certain.

He saw her hesitation, quickly adding, "Don't worry. I won't take any liberties with you. I just want to spend some time getting to know you. Is that okay?"

"Of course," Gen replied, feeling stupid all of a sudden, and they went out again into the wintry night to go to his place.

It took less than fifteen minutes to get there. "Wow, Derek, this is great," Gen exclaimed as she looked around his apartment. It was in a pre-war building, with all the original details intact. The ceilings were high and the rooms amply proportioned. Derek's parents had rented him a one-bedroom apartment three blocks away from the school. Though the neighborhood around the school wasn't the greatest, there were pockets of pretty, leafy residential blocks and Derek's building was on one of the nicer ones.

"It's way better than living in an institutional dormitory."

"And you live here alone?"

"Well, yes, until you move in I do."

Gen blushed on cue. "Better watch it or I'll take you up on that, Mister."

His eyelids dropped to half-mast and he whispered, "I'm counting on it, Genevieve."

Uh-oh, Gen realized that Derek was just way too good at this. She had walked right into his trap and she had a feeling that if she didn't get out now, by the time she left, she'd be a full-fledged woman.

"Um, I'm thinking I'd better head home now, Derek. It's been fun spending the day with you." She leaned over to give him a quick peck on the lips but he caught her head in his hand and held her there, gently pressing his tongue into her mouth, invading her whole body with the sexual energy his dripped from every one of his pores. She tentatively placed her hands on his waist and kissed him back. Mmm, he was luscious.

"Oh, no, you don't," he said when he finally allowed her to pull away. "I waited all day to do that. If I promise not to go any further, will you sit down with me and let me kiss you, Genevieve?"

"Derek, aren't we rushing things just a tiny bit? We just met for the very first time a few hours ago."

"So? It took exactly one second for me to understand I had to get to know you. Can you tell me you didn't feel the same way about me? Tell me if you didn't, Genevieve. I want to know."

Gen felt her face heat up. Damn but Derek was forthright, wasn't he? He didn't play any games at all. She'd try to follow suit. "Yes. I felt the same way, Derek."

"I thought so. Come on, beautiful blond goddess. Sit down with me so I can kiss you. I won't bite, I promise. Not today, anyway."

Gen knew she was a goner. The moment she spotted him in that classroom, she knew she wanted to meet him, date him, sleep with him—all of it. But never in her wildest imagination did she think she'd do all three in one day, the first day they met. But unless she ran out of here now, she knew the situation would escalate until they ended up in bed and she didn't know what to do about it other than leave.

But she didn't want to leave. She sat down on the sofa.

He watched her internal struggle mirrored by her changing facial expressions and then her capitulation, and smiled—hunter wins the day.

But Derek Girardi's word was golden: he never went further that night. Kissing him, though, was so hot that Gen was actually disappointed that he didn't. She knew he wanted to do more for she could, uh, feel it on him. But he didn't. For three hours, they sat on his sofa, well, lay down on his sofa, and kissed. He had such lips, too. Gen didn't want to use pedestrian adjectives to try to describe them.

She was in love—at first sight.

So was he.

Derek had never met any other girl who moved him like this gorgeous blond Genevieve. She was so sweet yet not gullible, so stunning, yet not pretentious; she was without definition or precedent. The one thing he did know for sure was that he didn't want her to leave his apartment. Ever. Having her here with him felt so right, so instantly, as instantly as a freight train slamming right into him.

He took her back to her dorm by eleven that night, with a promise to see each other after classes the next day. Derek was determined that no other person with a penis get close to Genevieve until he could establish himself firmly in her life. He'd decided he'd make his move for her on the weekend.

Gen was thrilled by Derek's attention. He'd meet her after classes every chance he could and they'd see each other every evening. He invited her out to dinner this Saturday—they were going to the Botanical Gardens first, to see its winter show—and Gen had decided if it began to happen that night, she'd let it happen. She felt as if she waited long enough.

Gen had one problem: she was having issues with her ex-boyfriend and she didn't want it to spill over into this new relationship. She had begun to see Marcus when she first started at Pratt and it just didn't work out. Marcus, however, was having problems accepting that fact and he was sort of harassing her. She didn't want him to find out about Derek and cause any problems. She debated as to whether or not she should mention it to Derek.

Saturday finally arrived. Gen woke up and as soon as she thought of what might happen tonight, her stomach started flipping. Glancing at the other bed, she saw that Sasha was still sound asleep, snoring lightly. Judging from her dorm mate's condition, it was clear that Sasha must have had a good Friday night, Gen thought, amused. Sasha had fallen into bed fully clothed, her make-up still on her face. Now her mascara was tracking across one cheek, her lipstick was clownishly smeared, and her body was twisted in a very unladylike position. Gen briefly considered snapping a picture. Oh, what the hell, she thought, as she grabbed for her camera.

When Sasha finally woke up, Gen told her she had a blackmail photo of her and they both laughed.

"Hey, guess what, Sasha? Tonight's the night, I think."

"The night?"

"You know. _The night_."

"Gen, I drank straight tequila last night—at least nine shots. My brain can't be expected to function. What do you mean exactly?"

"My pure as the driven snow condition? Tonight it gets sullied."

"Really? Who's the lucky guy?"

"His name is Derek Girardi and he's the most gorgeous man on the planet. Sash, you have got to see this guy."

Sasha looked surprised. "Derek Girardi? Why does that name sound familiar? What does he look like?"

Gen described him in minute detail and Sasha sat there, rapt. "Wow, he sounds hot. I think I may have met him but I can't remember how. Anyhoo, bring him around one of these days so my eyes can have some candy."

Gen laughed. "Will do. I'm meeting him at three today—we're going to Brooklyn Botanical. I'll probably stay overnight at his place but just in case it doesn't happen, don't make any plans for company. Okay?"

Sasha nodded miserably. "Don't worry. Unlike you, I don't have men following me around, sniffing behind me. Shit. I wonder what it must be like to be you, Gen."

Hating when Sasha started with this kind of self-deprecating talk, Gen cut her off. "I'm going to get in the shower. You should make yourself some coffee. There's instant in the cabinet and I bought milk yesterday—it's in the fridge."

She and Derek met up at three o'clock sharp, just outside the campus perimeter. He was waiting for her, looking edible in a black leather jacket and jeans. "Hi," Gen smiled and embraced him. Mmm, he smelled so good, mouthwateringly so.

"I missed you," Derek said, inhaling the scent of her hair.

"It's only been about, what, sixteen hours?"

"Way too long," he whispered as he kissed her nose, her chin, and finally her lips. "Can you stay with me tonight?"

Gen looked at him, momentarily taken aback. She'd never met anyone as bluntly honest as Derek. So, apparently, he had similar plans for this evening. "I don't have a change of clothes."

"Let's go buy you some, then. Come on."

He wasn't kidding, either. He took her right to a small boutique near his apartment and strode right in, entirely confident to shop in a women's store. She saw him talking to the saleswoman and then they both looked out the large window at her, appraising her size, no doubt. She waited outside, mortified beyond belief at his chutzpah. When he came out about fifteen minutes later, he had a bag with him and he was grinning from ear to ear.

"Okay, that's taken care of. Botanical Gardens?"

"Now you have to carry the bag all day."

"Pfft. I'd carry an entire trunk of clothes around all day to have you with me all night."

"Give it to me: I can probably fit it into my backpack."

He handed it to her, grinning like a fool and she couldn't help but join him as she stuffed it in; he was so delighted with himself. She slung the backpack over her shoulder and linked her arm through his and they made their way over to see a winter garden in Brooklyn.

After, they were trying to decide where to have dinner. Gen had a double knot in her stomach, anxious about the night, so she really didn't want to eat. She decided to match Derek's honesty and just tell him. "Derek, I'm not all that hungry really. I actually feel a little unsettled. Do you think maybe we could just pick up some food and go back to your place now?"

His eyes bore into hers, trying to discern what was on her mind. Finally he shrugged slightly. "Sure, if you'd prefer, Genevieve. What kind of food shall we get?"

"Call me Gen—it's quicker." She smiled. "As for food, I'm pretty easy: I like just about any kind of ethnic food ever dreamed up by mankind. My mom is French but grew up in Spain and Italy, and my dad is Cajun but spent time in Mexico, so at our house the cooking ran the gamut."

Derek laughed. "Okay. How about Thai food? Anyone live in Phuket?"

"No, but I love Thai food. What's your ethnic background, by the way? I know your surname is Italian."

"My father is half Austrian and half Sicilian. My mom is a quarter British, a quarter Italian, and half Cherokee."

"Wow, interesting combination. It mixed pretty damn well." She grinned and gave him a quick peck on the cheek, and he pulled her into a big hug.

"Mmm, French, huh?"

She smiled, "Oui, oui."

They brought the take-out back to his apartment and Derek put on some music. Gen was leaning against the wall watching him and Derek casually strolled over to her, putting his hands on the wall on either side of her head so she couldn't easily escape. "Okay. Why are you so anxious, Gen?

"What do you mean?"

"You said you weren't hungry, yet you haven't eaten for hours. Also, you mentioned feeling unsettled. I want to know why. Are you nervous about being with me tonight? Because we don't have to do anything, Genny. I just want you here with me. I hate saying goodbye to you. That's all."

"You're painfully honest, Derek, you know that?"

He smiled his beautiful smile. "One of my failings, no doubt."

"I am anxious about tonight. I want to be with you, Derek, but . . . um . . . I've never, you know . . . I'm a virgin and I know some men don't like that and . . ." She shrugged, feeling ridiculously awkward. "Are you one of them?"

If he was surprised at her admission, he hid it extremely well. "Don't like it? They must be crazy. No, I'm not one of them, Genny. I'd consider it an honor, but just so you know, that's not all I'm after here. I want you, body and soul. I think I'm in love with you."

She stood there, immobilized by his words, her arms behind her back holding her body in a vertical position. Did he just say that or did she imagine it? She was wondering how to respond when he cut in.

"Say something, please. Your silence is killing me."

"Did you just say you're falling in love with me?"

He nodded, his eyes filled with worry now.

"Really, Derek?"

"Really, Genevieve. I know it's absurdly fast but it is what it is. I've never felt this way about anyone and I… I don't want to finish that thought, the man said with a sheepish grin." He smiled at his own wordplay but Gen wondered about the rest of his sentence. Was he going to say he's known a lot of women?

She leaned in and kissed his lips and when he reciprocated, her arms went around his head. She wanted to keep this one for sure—was it really possible he felt the same way?

"Does that mean you approve?" he whispered when the kiss ended.

Gen closed her eyes. When she opened them, he was watching her intently. "Yes, I approve, Derek. What's more, I feel the same way about you."

He gripped her shoulders and pulled her hard against him, kissing her for all he was worth, and grinding his erection against her belly. Her arms still around his head, she held his face to hers as he walked her backwards into the bedroom.

Pushing her down onto the bed, on her back, he sat over her, straddling her hips. She had on a tight red button-down sweater and he started with that. When he undid all the buttons, he slid the sleeves down just low enough to push her bra straps off her shoulders as well, so he could expose her breasts. He looked down at her, staring. Gen began to feel uncomfortable at the protracted length of time he gazed at her.

Abruptly he got up and pulled her to her feet. Once there, he began to undress her, not seductively, but with purpose. Gen was feeling confused and agitated at his shift in behavior.

"Derek . . ." She didn't know what to say to him. He just removed every article of her clothing quickly and efficiently until the only thing she had on, as Marilyn Monroe once famously said, was the radio.

"Genevieve," he said, stepping back to appraise her naked body, "may I photograph you, baby? Please? You know I'd never misuse the photographs; you have my word. It's just that your body is a study in proportion. I could see it right through your clothes."

That's right, Gen remembered. He'd told her he specialized in nudes; she should have seen this coming. She was an artist too, and had gotten used to people of all shapes and sizes disrobing so she could draw them in class. She supposed it was her turn now.

"Okay," her voice was a cross between a croak and a whisper. This was not how she imagined the night would go.

Derek quickly strode to a closet, pulling out a white sheet that he then tacked to a wall of the bedroom. He removed a tripod light from the corner of the room and set it up near the sheet, angling it toward the other wall and placing a thin towel over it to reduce any glare. When he was done he led her over, placing her in front of the white sheet. He went into the other room to get his camera.

At least he was quick about it: he took about thirty shots from various angles before he let her off the hook. Switching off the light, he held out his hand and she accepted it gratefully, relieved the impromptu photo session was over. "Thank you, Genny. It's nice to have another artist who understands," he said softly and kissed her hand.

He went to the dresser and removed some condom packets from an upper drawer and placed them on a bedside table, turning around to look at her.

"How come I'm stark naked and you still have on all your clothes? That's not fair."

"You're absolutely right," he replied, as he unbuttoned his flannel shirt, "that's not fair." Underneath he had on a white tee shirt and he yanked it off, treating Gen to her first look at his sharply defined chest and abs. God, she thought, it just gets better and better. When he removed everything but his pants, he walked closer to her and, grinning mischievously, pushed her with one hand so that she fell backward on the bed. He slowly unbuckled his belt, whipping it through the loops and Gen's mouth went dry with anticipation. He slid his jeans down his long legs, kicking them off once they reached his ankles.

There was only one article of clothing left between them—his boxer briefs—and Gen thought she knew why he left it on but he was so endowed that the fabric couldn't quite contain it when it was erect. Whoa, just a little intimidating for a girl who has never done this before. He kneeled onto the bed and pushed her all the way down with his chest.

"My God, you're perfect, everything just . . . You, Genevieve, are a blond goddess… _my_ blond goddess. I don't want any other man to ever know you the way I do now. I want to keep you all to myself, all mine," he whispered into her ear and now he was piling on his seductive charm: _the artist has left the room and the slick lover has come to take his place_, Gen thought.

He began to kiss her throat, working his way down to her breasts, and further down. She quickly pulled him back up to her face and kissed his luscious lips, his tongue invading her mouth and hers reciprocated. She wanted him so badly but he was determined to do things his way and he kept trying to slide down, to go down on her.

"Derek, no. You know this is the first time for me; I'm not ready for that yet."

"Genevieve, place yourself in my hands and I promise I won't let you down, my blond goddess. Please?"

Unsure, she paused for a moment and then made him a proposition. "Only if I may reciprocate, then."

He looked up and smiled from ear to ear. "You've got a deal, baby," he uttered as his slithered down her body.

She'd never had an orgasm before this night, not that she was aware of, never even figured out how to masturbate all that well. What Derek was doing to her was incredible and she thought she'd die from the intensity of it. When she came, she understood viscerally why it was such a big deal. It was like nothing else. He picked his head up to look at her and the heat in his eyes was just sizzling.

Now it was her turn and it excited her to try it. She sat up and gently rolled him over onto his back by the shoulders. Derek glanced at her and raised his brows. "Have you ever done this before?"

She smiled and shook her head.

"You're sure you want to try it now? I haven't even popped your pretty little cherry yet, Genevieve. You're moving right into advanced territory."

"There's got to be a first time for everything, right?" She said as she reached for the waistband of his briefs.

Derek just stared in response. Genevieve was different from other girls but he was hard pressed to explain how. She wasn't brazen, not in the least. In fact, he'd have sworn the word shy would be an apt adjective for the girl. And yet she didn't intimidate easily. She didn't back down or show fear or even embarrassment, as would be part and parcel with shyness. He'd never met anyone remotely like this girl and found she far outclassed every other woman he'd ever known.

"Okay, then. Give me your finger."

She held out her index finger and he took it in his hand, pulling it up to his mouth. "You can do it this way," he sucked hard on her finger, and then slid it out of his mouth. "Or this way," he said, as he slid her finger in and out of his mouth lightly. "Or anyway you choose to do it, baby."

She yanked down his briefs and out it sprang. Derek, his head in his hand, watched her with curiosity. She pushed him onto his back again and, lowering her head, took as much of him as she could fit in her mouth, combining the two ways he showed her, and then improvising as she went along. When she heard him begin to moan, she knew she was doing something right.

"Oh, baby, what you done to me," he said and tried to pull her off him but she wouldn't let go. "Genny, stop. I want to make love to you. If you make me come, we'll have to get it back up again. Next time, not tonight, baby, I've got an important mission to fulfill." He pulled her up again and this time she let him.

He was lying across from her and his hand slipped between her legs, exploring. Before it was just his tongue—for some reason it felt more taboo to have his hand there, the place that was forbidden territory all her life.

He reached over for one of the condoms, unfurling it over himself. "Ready?"

She nodded, unable to say anything.

"It may hurt for a couple of seconds, Genny, just until I break it, okay? Try not to tense up."

"Okay." She held out her arms to him and he came to her, pushing her flat on her back. "Wrap your legs around me, sweetheart."

Gen complied and he began to kiss her without doing anything else. She felt him down there but he didn't attempt to push in—he just patiently kissed her, first her lips and then up and down her throat, and then his mouth descended on her breasts and she was physically hurting with need for him. Finally, he came back to her mouth.

He held her head in both hands and looked into her eyes. "Tell me what you need right now, Genny, what you want."

"I need you, Derek. Now."

"Why? Do you need me to complete you, baby? Is there an emptiness you need to fill? Tell me, Genny," he whispered the last part.

The way he was speaking, the words he was saying, made her physical need for him burn even hotter—clearly his intention. She was actually aching down there, and only he could fill the void.

"Please, Derek. Make it stop."

"What, baby? Make what stop?"

"The ache."

"My beautiful Genny, I'll make it stop," he whispered. He lowered his head to kiss her and as his tongue pushed its way into her mouth, he thrust his hips up, and went into her, still gentle but fast. He wanted to get her pain over with quickly, to get her to the good part.

It did hurt—intensely—but only for a few seconds and then the pain vanished completely, as if it were never there. And she realized she would bear any pain for Derek: she was enraptured with him. When she opened her eyes, he was watching her face intently, his body still. "Okay, love?"

"Yes," she whispered. "More than okay." Her words were too true: she felt so right with him inside her and in this instant, she knew she'd never love anyone else the way she loved Derek.

"I'm going to move now; let me know if I hurt you in any way, baby." Watching her face closely, he withdrew and pushed in again, slowly, moving his hips in a circular motion so that it touched every part of her, including the G spot. When that happened she moaned loudly, physically unable to contain it, and he smiled. "Good," he said softly, "I found it rather quickly."

He hit it every time he pulled out and pushed in until the pressure mounted and mounted, escalating with his steady rhythm. She finally hit the wall—slammed into it really—and she cried out, yelling his name as her body contracted fiercely around him, forcing him to join her sooner than he might have liked.

After, Gen was lying in his arms, her face on his chest, listening to his heartbeat wind down after his orgasm. He picked up his head and looked at her. "So? How was that, Genevieve?"

She smiled. "It was . . . mmm, good, really good, Derek."

"Why me?"

"You?"

"Why was I the lucky one? I'm sure you've had lots of other interested parties."

"Yes, but not a single one I wanted to get naked with . . . until you, Derek. I thought we already established that."

He smiled now. "Yes, we did, didn't we?"

"As long as we're on the topic, I should tell you about Marcus," Gen said, her manner halting. She hated to taint this wonderful new relationship with a former sour one. Still, it was prudent for Derek to be forewarned.

"Okay. What about Marcus?"

She sighed. "He is a guy I was dating for a while. Marcus Garrison. I met him the first week of school last semester. It didn't work out but he's having a hard time accepting it. He's been bothering me . . ."

"What is he doing?" Derek's voice dropped very low.

Gen's eyes darted up at him; she'd noticed that when Derek's mood shifted, so did the pitch of his voice. "Um, calling me nonstop, waiting for me outside some of my classes, generally harassing me, I guess. I'm just concerned that if he sees you with me, he may start in with you, Derek. Forewarned is forearmed, as they say."

"Duly noted, thanks. What Marcus is doing is called stalking and it's against the law. If he keeps it up, I'll go have a talk with him, Genny. No one is going to bother my girl."

She glanced up at him, her hand curling around his chin. "I like the sound of that, Derek. Your girl, I mean."

He dragged her face up to his and kissed her. "I like the sound of it, too, Genny. You're my girl, my blond goddess, and we are going to have so much fun together. Now . . . when can you move in?"

It all happened that fast. He did take care of Marcus for her—the guy never bothered her again after Derek spoke to him. Gen wondered exactly what was said but she never asked. Soon she became pregnant and they decided to marry. They didn't change their plans after she miscarried because by then, they were both set on the marriage—despite the disapproval by both sets of parents. Anyway, she got pregnant again soon after with Olivia. Gen's mother died the year after Olivia was born, and she confided to her daughter that she was grateful in retrospect that Gen married young because Cerise otherwise wouldn't have lived long enough to meet her _tres_ exquisite little granddaughter.

Cerise had known tragedy. She'd been married before she met Gen's father, Jeremy, whose nickname was Jem, after the character in _Mockingbird_. Cerise had met her first husband in Paris: he was visiting from his native Iran, and Cerise loved his dark exotic looks and mysterious accented French.

They married in secret and very quickly had a child together, a beautiful little girl they named Ava. When Ava was two, Cerise's husband and baby daughter disappeared one day, suddenly and without a word. Cerise was sure tragedy had befallen the two… but when she learned the truth, it was even more painful to bear.

He'd run from her, and returned to his native Iran with their daughter. Little Ava would be raised a devout Muslim, with all of the strictures that attended that religious lifestyle. For the next ten years, Cerise tried everything she could to get her daughter back but it was futile. She finally gave up, resigning herself to the fact that Ava was already lost to her, at this point: she was a different child now and Cerise would never be able to undo her upbringing. The worst, however, was yet to come. Three years later, when Ava was fifteen, Cerise learned she'd been given away in marriage to a much older man, a Saudi national. He'd brought Ava to his homeland and it was there she'd met her terrible fate: her husband beat her to death within a month's time of their marriage. Ava had just turned fifteen two months before her death.

The tragedy of her firstborn daughter carved permanent and ugly scars into Cerise's soul and altered her life's landscape in ways big and small. Her two daughters with Jem came to mean everything to her, her reason to get up each morning. She poured every ounce of joy and effort in making Genevieve and Monique's lives as perfect as was possible and she spared no love for them. Whatever was left over was reserved for her American husband who treated her kindly and only lightly traversed her past with her, an inclination for which she was inordinately grateful.

It was with joy that she greeted her granddaughter Olivia, who somehow reminded Cerise of her tiny Ava and made her rejoice. Her love for Gen and Gen's beautiful husband Derek grew to epic proportions and allowed her to die a peaceful if premature death.

During the short time before she and Derek married, Gen saw nothing but good in her soon to be husband. Unlike every other fellow artist she'd ever met, Derek's soul was not filled with darkness and angst. He was happy and lived life with joy, as far as she could see—she treasured that about him. Perhaps her great love precluded her from seeing anything less than perfect about Derek; perhaps the brilliance of his light obscured the dark that did exist. Unknowingly, Gen was on a direct trajectory to come up against Derek's one major character flaw, one of the seven deadly sins. Whether it was because he was a man or because he was an artist was immaterial: Derek was felled by beauty and often could not resist its force. To his credit, despite opportunity being constantly thrown in his face, Gen's presence in his life helped him look away from sin. But not every time. In the end, sin won out, the sin of lust, and it burned a gaping hole in their marriage.

Their nascent marriage sailed on an even keel for the first two years, until they bought the house in Brooklyn Heights. Olivia was about a year old and they had so many expenses that upon graduation, Derek was forced to take jobs he didn't want, just for the money. He felt he was prostituting his talent, and consequently began to withdraw, growing moodier with every one of those commercial art assignments.

Gen's father came to the rescue. After his wife died young, he let go of their shared dream to retire to the Southwest. He sold some land he owned in Arizona and paid off Gen and Derek's mortgage with it. Following suit, Derek's parents gifted them with a big check, as well. Things got easier, less stressful, and Derek began to collect antiques, getting fussier and fussier about his things. But when Gen got pregnant with Francesca, he was as thrilled as humanly possible about another baby in his life. Their marriage was happy and strong, or so Gen believed.

Then along came Mia.

Greg's voice snapped her out of her daydream. "Hon, where are the diapers? We ran out in the nursery."

Genevieve leaped out of her chair, embarrassed at how she was mooning about her ex-husband—not healthy, Mrs. Beckham, not healthy at all. She went to the stairs to yell up to Greg. It's about time he changed a diaper, Gen thought, perhaps uncharitably. It's not as if Greg didn't pull his weight around here.

The clock now read 12:51 so Derek should be here any minute. Her heart began racing again as she realized that she hadn't spent more than five minutes with him since their divorce fourteen years before. They both avoided each other to the extent possible, only having telephone conversations about their daughters and a quick update on the rare occasions that Derek would pick up the girls himself. Usually he would send either Mia or one of his staff. Today would mark the first time she had a real conversation with him since he was her husband. It was hard to believe, but both of them had avoided the pain by avoiding each other—at least Gen did.

32

32 


	6. Complements (backstory Ch 2)

**A/N:** Here's another chapter until I can get the whole book up on Goodreads and Smashwords. Formatting blues are bringing me down and causing the delay. Sorry.

**Chapter 2**

They were all in the kitchen when the bell rang at one on the dot. Olivia ran to get the door.

"Dad! I'm so glad to see you!"

"Olivia, is it possible you've grown more beautiful than the last time I saw you," he said as he embraced her with his one free arm. The giant stuffed animal he was holding kept getting in the way.

"Come in. Everyone's in the kitchen. Remember where it is?"

He chuckled. "I think I can find it."

Gen had just checked on the bread in the oven and turned the heat off the frittatas. She wiped her hands on a towel, and headed out to the foyer to greet Derek. When she got to the hall, she saw Olivia in his arms, well, arm, really since his other one held a giant stuffed panda bear. When he looked up and saw her, his eyes seemed to light up. It appeared as if he were glad to see her, Gen thought, taking a deep breath.

"Derek, it's so good of you to visit. Thank you for joining us for lunch," she said, extending her hand to him. He took it and reached over to kiss her cheek.

"You look beautiful, Gen. Motherhood certainly agrees with you. Congratulations on Jude's birth. Wow, a little boy. It's a whole new experience for you."

Gen smiled, flushing. "Yes, it is. Please come in, Derek. May I get you a glass of wine?"

"That would be great, thanks. Oh, this big guy here is for Jude."

Gen laughed. "You certainly don't do anything by half measure, do you?" Once this guy moves into the nursery, there may not be any room for the baby."

Derek laughed, still holding Olivia in his embrace. "It was the first thing I saw when I walked through the door of FAO Schwartz. I just had to get it." He also had a shopping bag full of baby gifts that he handed to her. Gen just shook her head, accepting both and placing them down in the hall. The three went into the kitchen.

Gen handed Derek a glass of what used to be his favorite wine, a California cab. Just as he accepted it, Chess came bounding into the room and Derek placed the glass on the table to greet her. She ran into his arms and he squeezed her, kissing her head. "Cesca, you've grown taller since I last saw you. No fair, you're growing up too fast."

She smiled. "I missed you. Why do you have to live so far away?"

Derek smiled sadly and patted her cheek.

He held his hand out to Greg. "Congratulations, sir. You must be thrilled about the new addition to your family."

The grin on Greg's face was nearly incandescent. "You have no idea, Derek. I think I could do cartwheels but I'm not sure I'd live through the experience."  
Derek looked around. "So where is the little one?"

Gen piped in, "He's taking his nap. He should be up soon."

Now Derek had said hello to everyone in the room except Daniel. He had to acknowledge him. He walked over to where Daniel sat at the end of the table.

"Mr. Butler," he said, extending his hand. "We meet again. How goes it with you?"

Daniel smiled tightly, his back as stiff as a board. He considered Olivia's father to be his adversary and he knew he had to watch himself with Derek. "Very well, thank you, largely because I have the most beautiful girlfriend in the whole world."

Chess yelled at him, "Daniel, how many times do I have to tell you, I'm not your girlfriend," and they all laughed at her remark.

They had just sat down to lunch when they heard Jude's wail and Greg jumped up to get him. A minute later he reappeared in the kitchen holding the baby and Derek reached out with his arms. "May I hold him?"

Greg placed Jude in Derek's arms and Derek cradled him delicately, kissing his head. "Oh my God, he's so beautiful," he said as he examined the baby closely. Jude was entranced by Derek's beard and tried to touch it with his tiny hands and Derek leaned in so he could reach it. The baby gurgled happily, smiling up at Derek.

Gen watched him, amazed at how delighted he was by the baby—and by how the baby was delighted by Derek. Again, she wondered if perhaps her ex-husband sensed a deeper connection with Jude: Gen got goosebumps just thinking about it.

At that moment Pisces, having hunted down his newest toy, came rushing over to show it to Derek and began to kiss Jude's face and the baby started fussing over the dog's attention. Derek laughed and handed him over to Gen.

"I think he looks a little like Olivia did as a babe."

Gen smiled. "I thought so too, but he's the first one with brown eyes."

Lunch went well and Derek complimented Gen on everything. He was never a big eater but he ate enough to make Gen feel good about the meal.

They were sitting around after, drinking wine and chatting when Derek looked up. "Well, I have some news of my own that I'd like to share with all of you."

All heads swiveled to face him simultaneously and he laughed, causing them all to join him. "Mia and I have reconciled and we're expecting a baby in January."

Everyone reacted to the news happily, even Chess. Olivia jumped up and gave her father a big hug, saying, "I'm so happy for you and Mia, Dad. That's wonderful."

Chess walked over to Derek and gave him a hug too. "Congrats, _Dad_. I'm so happy to have another brother or sister to share my inheritance with."

Derek threw his head back and laughed so hard, appreciating his daughter's humor—and perhaps the sentiment, too.

Gen smiled and congratulated Derek but hidden from view, her insides were twisting. The jealousy she felt was astoundingly potent—she didn't want Mia to bear Derek's children. Stop it, she scolded herself. You have no claim on him and haven't for many years.

When Chess and Olivia told her that Derek had split with Mia, she felt a similar sharp pang of pain. It wasn't the break-up that hurt her in the least. It was the idea that now he'd be a free agent and he'd have multiple women trying their best to snare him—after all, he was an incredible catch by any standard. It was hard enough knowing that the conniving little bitch had him, sanctioned by marriage, but now he'd have his choice of female to sleep with and perhaps love. It was almost more than she could bear.

She had to rejoin the conversation or someone would notice her unease. She heard them talking about dogs, how Derek and Mia adopted dogs and then Derek called them by name: Sydney and Sylvie.

"Sydney and Sylvie! I hope you give your baby a better name."

Derek laughed and said he couldn't take credit—or blame—for the names. The dogs had been given those names by their previous human companion.

All told, except for Derek's surprising announcement, the lunch was a success from Gen's point of view. She decided to try to put his news away for later examination because she didn't want it to be obvious to others. Since the anguish of losing Derek, she'd become quite adept at compartmentalizing: it was a necessary acquisition. Anyway, Derek was in her distant past and she shouldn't be reacting that way to his personal life, love life, whatever.

After, Greg walked over to where Derek was sitting. "Hey Derek, can I show you around the house? It's been a long time since you've seen it and we've remodeled quite a bit."

"Absolutely," he said, rising to his feet and following Greg out of the kitchen.

When they came back, Derek reentered the kitchen where Gen and Olivia were cleaning up. "Gen, it's okay if I take the girls for the weekend, right?"

"Of course, Derek. I think they're both already packed."

"Great. By the way, Gen. I saw the baby's nursery and what you did in there, with the painting and the fabric—it's like a wonderland. You really need to get back to your art. It's not fair to you or to the world to let your talent lie fallow. I have a proposition for you, Gen: since I was directly responsible for interrupting your education, I will cover the tuition for you to return to school to finish your degree."

Gen flushed, embarrassed by what Derek was saying to her. Her heart felt as if it were racing erratically due to his close proximity; Derek did such things to her body and that had never changed or diminished apparently. Right now he was close enough that she could smell his cologne or whatever it was, and it was as intoxicating as the wine she'd gulped earlier.

"Derek, you weren't responsible for my quitting school: it was my own decision. And while it's very generous of you to offer what you did, right now I cannot even consider returning to school—maybe sometime in the future. Anyway, I feel as if I'm practicing my art with flowers. It requires the same kind of attention, although it's perishable. In a way, its transience makes it even more special. And when I have a big budget, I can really make magic happen. Flowers plus lighting plus alcohol equals sublime, ethereal beauty. Trust me," she said laughing.

Derek nodded. "Be that as it may, please keep my offer in mind, Genevieve. It's on the table whenever you decide to do it."

A little while later, the girls left with Derek and Gen went back to the book she was reading but found she couldn't concentrate. Derek kept popping into her head and she picked up where she left off before . . .

Francesca was nearly eleven months old and Gen was thinking about her birthday party when she heard the front door open and realized that Derek came home from his studio. Shit, Gen, thought. I haven't even started dinner and he's probably hungry. She looked at the clock and saw it was nearly seven. Damn, where did the day go? She jumped up from the sofa and put the magazines away.

"Hi gorgeous man," she said as she swept into the foyer to give her husband a kiss hello but then stopped short when she saw Derek's pale face. "What's the matter? You look strange, Derek."

"Gen, can we sit down and talk for a moment?"

Uh-oh. Gen got a knot in the pit of her stomach. This couldn't be good because Derek looked upset. Something's either happened or . . . she didn't want to give birth to the idea. They sat down and Gen angled her body toward him so she could watch his face. "What's up?"

"Gen, please promise me you won't overreact when I tell you what I'm about to tell you. Can you promise to remain calm?"

"No, I really can't promise, Derek, until I hear what you have to say. Just spit it out because you're making me sick with suspense."

Derek took his wife's hand. "Sam asked me for a favor last week. He wanted to send a young woman to me to photograph. He said she had just arrived from Ethiopia and needed new photos since her portfolio was dated but that she didn't have the money to do it. Sam asked me if I would do it pro bono as a favor to him and I said yes." Derek tightened his grip on her hand.

"Anyway, I had her come late in the afternoon after I got my work done. Janine had to leave early today anyway, for a dental appointment. The young woman, Mia, came in and I began to take the shots."

Now Gen could see the pained expression on her husband's face and she began to have an inkling as to where this conversation was going. The sour acid began to accumulate in her stomach, rising quickly up her esophagus and beginning to choke her.

"She was definitely coming on to me but I ignored her; I was doing my best to get the shots done and get her out. Anyway, I needed a filter for the lens so I could achieve a certain effect, so I went in the back to search for it. Janine has her own filing and storage system and I can't for the life of me fathom the logic to it. When I finally found the damn thing, I went back out to the studio and . . . the girl was stark naked, Gen. She'd taken off all her clothes while I was in back.

"Being entranced by nudes as you well know I am, I began to shoot her like crazy—she has an amazing body and she's dark as night, Gen, very sexy. Before too long, she began to take the shots dirtier and dirtier and I kept shooting. Long story short, Gen: I fucked her."

He ceased talking and just gazed at his wife, probably wondering where his confession would lead. Gen felt bewildered, or perhaps shell shocked might describe it better.

"I'm sorry, Genevieve. I didn't mean for it to happen, baby, and it won't happen again. Can you get past it, do you think?"

Gen tried to swallow the grapefruit that lodged in her throat. She stared at the floor, wondering what she should do. She was so hurt by Derek's betrayal, but he was her husband and they had two baby girls, for God's sake. She couldn't just walk away. Plus, she loved him with every fiber of her being.

"Gen, say something, please. Sweetheart, it was stupid and impulsive. I'm sorry, Gen, I love you."

She just stared at the floor, dazed. "Did you use protection?"

"Yes, Gen, I did." His hand reached for hers and she pulled it away.  
Getting to her feet, she turned to the stairs and trudged up robotically, trying to turn off her mind to stop the pain and confusion.

He came up right after her. She tried to close the bedroom door in his face but he held it open, pushing his way in.

"Genevieve, don't shut me out. Please, baby, listen to me, please. I know you're hurting—I'm so sorry, love." He reached for her and she backed away. "No, Genny, don't do that." He stood there, panic in his eyes, his empty arms outstretched.

"Genevieve, I love you. It meant nothing to me—it was purely physical. If you feel the need, you can get back at me in the same way and I'll say nothing. I swear. Please, Genevieve, you're the light of my life, sweetheart. We have two babies together."

That was low, Genevieve thought, to bring the girls into it. But it was true, wasn't it? And she loved Derek so much, she knew she had to forgive him . . . but she didn't have to do it right now. Let him suffer for a while.

But after a few long minutes of the two of them standing immobile, she glanced at his face and the naked fear that lurked within it touched her somewhere soft, away from the bitter anger. Against her better judgment, she walked into his arms.

He clutched her. "Genny, I love you, I love you, I love you. Please understand that above all." He kissed her cheek and her head and just held her, not daring to do anything else.

So she forgave him or at least vowed to get past it —it was a momentary indiscretion and she wasn't going to destroy her marriage over it. But then he did it again. And again . . . and again.

Each time he'd come home and tell her about it, confess, apologize, even plead with her, promising her he'd go for counseling if she'd keep him, stay with him.

"I want a divorce," she finally told him, without emotion, her eyes flat and hard. "No more discussion. Get out of the house by the weekend. In the meantime, sleep in the spare bedroom. I will go out for the day tomorrow and while I'm gone, pack your things, Derek. Put them in storage and check into a hotel until you can find a place. Our marriage is over."

Gen tried to shut off the continuous loop of memory reel in her mind. She hadn't relived that horrible experience for a long, long time. She got up from the sofa and began to collect the towels from both bathrooms in the house to do some laundry. By the time she finished, Jude would wake from his late afternoon nap, and she'd start dinner. Actually, since it was just she and Greg tonight, there wasn't much need to cook. Maybe they should go out to eat?

After the day he came to lunch, Gen started spending more time thinking about Derek, replaying the years of their relationship, and wishing things had turned out differently. She was feeling restless, bored with her life now that the girls were older and Jude was still so young. She needed change, something interesting that would occupy her time. Maybe Derek was right? Maybe she should return to school to finish her degree?

A few days after she had that conversation with herself, she ran into Stephen Hopkins, of all people, their art professor from years ago. Life can be so funny.

Gen was at a gallery opening for a friend of hers, Joe Chaney, a mixed-media artist whose star was finally on the rise. She and Greg were standing in front of one his works, sipping cheap white wine, when a rather good-looking man in his mid-sixties approached her.

"Now, you look very familiar to me. Might I know you?"

Gen just stared into his face, remembering the planes of it, the hairline, but she couldn't place him. "Yes, I believe you're correct though in my dotage I can't seem to recall exactly how," she said laughingly.

"Stephen Hopkins," he said, extending his hand.

"Of course, how idiotic of me. Mr. Hopkins, I was fortunate enough to have been a student of yours at Pratt. Genevieve Winters was my name at the time," she gushed, grasping his outstretched hand.

"Ah, yes, now I remember. One of my more gifted students, as I recall. What have you been doing all these years?"

Gen blushed. "Well, not all that much, honestly. Oh, where are my manners. Mr. Hopkins, this is my husband, Greg Beckham. Greg, Stephen Hopkins, a renowned painter who taught one of my drawing classes at Pratt." The two men shook hands.

Greg, his expression telling Gen that he'd rather be just about anyplace else, excused himself to go to the restroom.

"So, Genevieve, tell me of your life."

"I'm afraid I haven't done much with my art. I married very young and had two children. Now that they're nearly grown, I've been thinking of devoting myself more to art, although in the interim I've been working in floral design, which I find fun and at times quite challenging."

"Hmm, I see. If memory serves me correctly, you were most talented at painting. Why did you give it up?"

"I didn't give it up at all. My home is littered with my work," she said, laughing.

"I'm glad to hear it, Genevieve. You have an unusual talent and it should be nurtured." He paused slightly. "I was surprised when you introduced me to your husband. I was sure you were going to marry Mr. Girardi—the two of you were inseparable. I noticed he's done quite well for himself."

Gen felt her cheeks heat up with intense fire. "Yes, well, we did marry and Derek is the father of my two daughters. Unfortunately, the marriage failed and I've since remarried."

"Ah. Yes, I've seen Girardi photographed with his current wife, an African woman, I believe?"

"Yes, Mia is Ethiopian."

"His great loss, I'd wager to say. Never much liked the man myself." He smiled craftily. "I thought you were much too good for the slickster—and a better artist, too. Enough about him. I'm going to be in New York for a few weeks—I live mostly in Europe these days. Would you care to have lunch with me next week sometime? We can catch up more leisurely and with wine that's potable—or does that word only apply to water? The wine served at these types of functions is no better than vinegar."  
Gen laughed at his commentary and against her better judgment accepted his invitation. "That sounds lovely, Mr. Hopkins."

"Please, call me Stephen." He pulled out his phone, asked for her number, and punched it in. "I'm thinking Tuesday or Wednesday. Would either work for you?"

"Tuesday would be difficult but Wednesday would work. I have my nanny all day."

"I thought you said your children were grown?"

Gen blushed for the tenth time. "I had a son recently—an unexpected pleasure. But Wednesday will be fine."

"Very good. I'm looking forward," he said, grasping her hand and squeezing it. "Till then, Genevieve."

She smiled and nodded, then went in search of Greg, wondering why she gave that scoundrel her damn telephone number. Hopkins made her skin crawl tonight and she didn't appreciate his deprecating remarks about Derek. He was just jealous that Derek's reputation far exceeded his own now.

A few days before she was scheduled to meet Hopkins, Gen ended up cancelling the lunch—Hopkins would just make her feel bad about herself and he might still be interested in pursuing something with her. In any case, it wouldn't be healthy or wise. The man was mightily disappointed when she begged off.  
"Oh, Genevieve, but I was so looking forward to our lunch together. Is there any way you can make it?"

"I'm afraid not, Stephen. I have to go out of town unexpectedly and I don't know when I'll return. But thank you kindly for the invitation and I hope you have a nice time in New York. Take care." And she hung up quickly, feeling a huge weight lift off her chest.

But the ennui returned after that, the sense of being disconnected from everything. At least Olivia and Daniel seemed to be happy together and on an even keel. Things were going very well on that front and Genevieve was finally starting to feel less anxious about their relationship. Recently, Derek had begun to take a significantly deeper interest in his daughters' lives and knowing his shoulder was available made a huge difference—if only he was as involved all along. The baby was thriving and Greg seemed to be happy with his new status as father. Life was peaceful if not sublimely happy.

When the trouble began with Olivia, Gen began to have more conversations with Derek, albeit long distance. She didn't know what to do, and Greg was busy with the new season and in any case, he wasn't Olivia's father in the final analysis. It was up to Gen and Derek to make the important decisions and right now Olivia needed them to do so more than ever. She called him as soon as Daniel's security people had come to the house after the break-in.

". . . and they're staying 24/7, Gen?" Derek asked.

"Apparently."

"I can't believe that Olivia took the guy down by herself. That girl continually amazes me. If I weren't so pissed off about the whole state of her life right now, I'd be bursting with paternal pride. I just wish we had all the facts."

"Olivia was very evasive about the reasons behind it all—if she even knows herself—but, Derek, my gut tells me this whole thing has something to do with Daniel. Plus, she told me things about him that none of us knew because he didn't see fit to tell her initially—"

"Like what, Gen?"

"Well, for one thing, he's older than he told Olivia he was."

"I knew he was lying! I never believed he was twenty-one. So, what is he? About twenty-six, I'm guessing?"

"Close enough. He's twenty-five. Now I find out they're going off to Europe together for her spring break; they're flying to Zurich tomorrow, Derek."

"What? Don't let her go, Gen."

"Derek, how can I stop her? She's an adult now, remember? Anyway, she tells me they'll have security with them around the clock. I'll keep you posted, okay?"

"Yes, please. Gen, do you think I should fly to Zurich and meet up with her, try to separate her from the man?"

Gen sighed exhaustedly. "No, Derek. I don't think it will do any good. She's convinced herself that she's in love with him and if we lock horns with her on this, you know what will happen. She'll dig her heels in even deeper. You might recall how you and I reacted when our parents tried to prevent our marriage. We just have to watch her hawkishly and do our best to keep her safe and protected."

"Okay but my gut tells me to get her the hell away from Butler. I don't trust the man as far as I can throw him, Genny."

Gen smiled. Derek was the only one who called her Genny, other than Sasha, her old college roommate. And he hadn't called her by that name in ages since they rarely spoke long enough to be on such familiar terms. Perhaps she and Derek could become friends again, now that time had healed some of the more jagged pieces of pain?

"Then we're in agreement on yet another point, Derek. It's not as if I don't like Daniel—I do, very much. I just think he's too mature for Olivia and I'm not sure what's going on with them.

The night Olivia returned to New York from her European spring break, Gen was desperate to get her back to Brooklyn but, again, Olivia said she wasn't coming home. She wouldn't answer Gen's questions about what was happening and her voice sounded saturated with anxiety. Gen was getting more and more frantic with worry about her daughter by the minute. She spoke to her Derek at least twice a day about Olivia and they discussed possible strategies to keep their daughter away from Daniel.

"Gen, let me call Olivia and see if I could feel her out about what's going on. You know, Daniel told both me and Olivia that he was a freelance animator yet today when we took Sophie to the pediatrician, I picked up the Wall Street Journal, and on page three, guess whose photo was splashed across the page?"

"Daniel's?"

"None other. Something about a patent sale his company was involved in. And when I say his company, I mean it literally: he is the owner and COO of the damn firm.

"Yes, Olivia told me all about Daniel's accomplishments before they left on their trip."

"Oh? She hasn't yet brought me up to date. Okay, I'll get in touch with Olivia now or as soon as I can and I'll give you a call if I learn anything. Okay?"

"Yes, please, Derek. I would much appreciate it. I haven't been able to sleep well because I'm sick with worry about her all the time. She won't explain things to me and she rarely comes home these days. I don't know what to think anymore."

"Alright. I'll get back to you soon, Gen. Try not to worry too much—everything will turn out fine."

"Okay, Derek. Thanks. We'll talk soon. Goodbye."

She'd waited one day and never heard back from Derek when she decided if he didn't call her by evening, she'd call him, time difference be damned.

That night she called Derek again to see if he'd spoken with his daughter.

"Hey, Gen. I was going to call you later."

"Derek, I can't tolerate it any longer. I'm going to the city to try to find her. I need to talk to her, face to face and—"

"Gen, I'm with Olivia now—"

"She's in Britain?"  
"What? No, I'm in New York—"

"Why are you in New York?"

"I came because Olivia sounded—"

"You dropped everything and came running to New York? Is it that bad, Derek?"

"Hang on a minute, Gen."

She heard him say excuse me to someone and then he came back on the line. "I was worried about her state of mind, Gen. Look, let me find out what's going on right now and I'll call you later tonight or tomorrow morning. Okay?"

"No. I want to know where you are right now so I can come over and see my daughter. Please, Derek, I can't sit around and wait anymore. Please."  
He sighed. "Okay, Gen. I'll text you the name and address of the hotel. Get here as soon as you can so we can get to the bottom of this thing together. In the meantime, I'll order some dinner."

As soon as he disconnected the call and considered the situation, Derek realized the absolute gift he'd just been handed by fate: he and the love of his life, his Genny, would be alone in a hotel suite with their daughter. This was the opportunity he'd waited for all these years and it came with such unexpected swiftness it took his breath away. Tonight was his chance to try to win back her affection, even if it was only some tiny part of her—just to hold her hand again would make the trip worthwhile. His first priority that he couldn't afford to lose sight of was Olivia. All his energies had to be focused on his daughter; only after that was resolved could he afford to think of himself. But still . . .

Losing Genevieve was the worst thing that ever happened to him. He remembered that night as if it were yesterday, the anguish permanently engraved into his brain and heart. When Gen told him she wanted a divorce, his world shattered in the blink of an eye.

She had said it so calmly. "Derek, I want a divorce. Pack your things and get out of the house by the weekend." Then she gracefully rose from the chair she'd been perched in and walked out of his life.

He sat there, stunned into inertia, unable to move as much as a finger. He wasn't surprised at the outcome for he'd kept cheating, seemingly incapable of controlling himself around the young model. Mia would show up at his studio, waiting until after Janine, his assistant, left for the day. The girl had no scruples or shame: she'd strut in and immediately begin to undress and he would just go at her, act as if he had no choice in the matter. Gen took it for a little while; now she was finished. He'd lost her forever—that knowledge, which was like acid burning in his gut, was what was paralyzed him.

He left the house then and there, as soon as he was able to move again, as soon as his body heeded the commands of his brain. He walked across the Brooklyn Bridge to Lower Manhattan, walked all night, crying, sickened, devastated. When dawn broke he found a coffee shop, had two cups of black coffee and an orange juice and went home to pack his things and say goodbye to his daughters. He'd move into his studio until he found a place . . . and he'd fuck Mia until her eyeballs popped out, the fucking bitch—exorcise her from his wretched system once and for all. In this moment, he hated her more than he'd ever hated anyone or thing.

19

19 


End file.
